


Swords and Soldiers

by honeydewed



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, I've been thinking about this for ages, Is this romantic or platonic? You can decide, Possibly one sided feelings, Rare Pair, The rarest of pairs, These two are wonderful and a little pure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 19:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20953757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydewed/pseuds/honeydewed
Summary: Sister Ophilia doesn't know much about swords and soldiers, but she understands kindness.





	Swords and Soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Octopath Traveler. I don't own these characters. No spoilers for endgame stuff, but for Olberic's chapter two. Honestly, I've been thinking about these two for a while. I think when I started to read the travel banter and understand the chemistry between the characters I started to ship Olberic with Erhardt and Primrose. However, I've been rolling this story idea since I first played Olberic's second chapter and seeing the gentle ways that he and Ophilia interacted with one another. There's a genuine admiration between the two. This could be either read romantically or be completely platonic. Either way, I hope you enjoy!

When Ophilia was young, there was a book of poems His Excellency adored and kept in their small personal library, she started to read it on days that were too cold for her and Lianna to play out of doors.

She'd sit by the fireside and admire the tales of red-haired faerie women with eyes of green bewitching mortal men, dragons with scales dark and rich as obsidian sitting atop glittering piles of gold, and heroic men with righteous swords protecting the meek. One of the poems, however, was about the battlefield. The prose is lost to time but a single line remains in her memory:

_The blood scattered like red rose petals from a maiden's hand_

The romantic imagery of blood spatter being compared to flowers made her nose crinkle in distaste. She'd been on a battlefield at that time and remembered the way the blood of her mother painted her skin and the ground beneath her feet. There was nothing romantic about that at all, and she closed the book in disgust.

As a healer and a holy woman, Sister Ophilia Clement reviles unnecessary violence. In her eyes most violence is unneeded. The church preaches pacifism, and if she were able to live the rest of her life without lifting her hand in fury she'd happily do so. The light magic she casts, the blunt end of her staff, and other spells she's eagerly learned through her journey are all necessary. The road is treacherous and she refuses to be a millstone around her companion's necks. She can protect herself and she'll always do her best to protect them.

She isn't a warrior.

Sir Olberic is a warrior.

She'd met knights before. After being orphaned a member of the Knights Ardante took her to Flamesgrace. They're chivalrous people, honorable, and while there might be a few here and there that throw their titles about to intimidate those without a knighthood or take bribes from lords to look the other way for unsavory business most are truehearted.

It hardly took a genius to see the man from the mountains was noble. It's a crass mistake to believe nobility extends purely towards lords and ladies or are born through lineage. A noble man is one that is magnanimous to every soul he crosses, he's compassionate, he's brave, and he's merciful.

Ophilia can't remember when she first noticed the mountainous man was truly a knight. It might have been during a battle, she'd fallen backward the sword of an enemy poised to lop her head clear off her shoulders, but suddenly Olberic stood before her. She sat on the ground in awe staring at his broad shoulders and back. He was not only a sword but a shield!

She gave him a firm talking to after that for being so reckless! He bore the brunt of an attack meant for her but he merely smiled. The crease in his brow often wrinkled from worry, relaxed and he looked young, perhaps a little boyish as a hearty laugh rose to his chest. He said he'd continue to be hit if it meant he could protect her.

It might have been on the road while tending to their donkey. He reached up to a tree along the path and offered the beast of burden an apple. Or it could have been in Bolderfall when he kept a group of orphans busy with tales or having them hang from his mighty arms like a tree. She might have noticed in the faint light of the fire as the light caressed the scars on his face and he sharpened his sword. Was it when she heard his laughter or when she poured him a tankard of mead? Perhaps it was when he held her hand out to her when she lost her footing or to help her across a gap. Her gloved hand held onto his gauntlet and she felt her stomach coil and ears warm.

His chivalrous actions or joyful ones that make her heart beat a little faster. Now and again she sees the knight and the fine man Sir Eisenberg is. She doesn't see his doubt, the harsh words he casts unto himself, or someone who's directionless. She can only see a steadfast and honorable man.

He doesn't hold bloodlust in his eyes and whenever he bests a friendly opponent, he extends his hand to help the other party back to their feet. Ophilia supposes that may be another factor that softened her heart to the warrior.

She proposed she join him in the fighting pit after his matches ended to mend him. The roar of the crowds remind Ophilia of the wild ocean crashing against the coast. It's rather loud. Between battles, he finds himself out of the pit and her healing hands administer relief to aches and pains.

Gustav's fight will be next. Waiting for the battle is killing Sir Olberic. After each battle, he mused aloud about what each fighter said to him before he brought them to their knees. Ophilia keeps close to the door wringing her staff as she watches Olberic pace until he stands completely still.

In the dim room his voice rises, "Why do I fight...?" The question hangs in the air, makes him clench his fist, and close his eyes. He holds his scabbard, tightening the grip upon the sleeping weapon. Ophilia glances around unsure if the question is meant for her ears or if he's merely speaking to fill the silence.

Emboldened she ventures forward shyly. "What's the matter, Sir Olberic?" She does her best to not look too startled when he finally turns to her. She's encroached upon his thoughts but she doesn't have the time to appear all too apologetic for it. She continues, "You look deep in thought."

Any of the doubts clinging to Sir Olberic are shed. He holds himself a little taller and his shoulders are back. Nodding sagely to the Flamebearer he speaks to her now, "Indeed I am." It can't hurt to share his thoughts, especially with Sister Ophilia. "I realized that every man who takes up arms has a reason to do so," for a lady love, for the memory of a father, for some reason.

Sir Olberic frowns. His brows furrow and she notices the scar on his forehead crinkle with the motion. The air about him is heavier and she knows there's a wound her light cannot reach. He looks back at the Sister and admits, "I have tried to not dwell on the many men who have fallen to my blade."

There's little room for compassion on the battlefield. A man hellbent to take the life of another doesn't need a just cause to lift his sword. Olberic supposes in war there isn't a good side or bad side. There's men ordered by their king to fight and they do as they're told. It could be to line their pockets with leaves, to protect a loved one, or because they love scattering blood on the ground but it doesn't matter when they meet the pointed tip of his blade.

He can thoroughly appreciate the reasons a rival voices. Men that don't give their lives while fighting one another and do so because the spirit of battle is one they wish to celebrate. "But now I find myself asking..." he lifts his sword from the scabbard just a fraction. The blade shines faintly in the dim candlelight winking like stars. "Why do I fight?" Olberic's shoulders begin to sag and he stares at the sharp edges of his blade. His eyes studying the familiar line as he asks either his sword or his current companion, "Why do I wield this sword?" Olberic returns it to his scabbard.

Doubt poisons the air. Ophilia stares up at him in wonder, could it be possible he doesn't see what she does? He doesn't see the courageous man that steps into the line of fire on the behalf of others. He doesn't see the virtuous fighter that always displays mercy if given the opportunity. He doesn't see that at all.

Ophilia can't allow him to wallow in his insecurities, especially before his final battle! She can't hesitate now even if her mouth doesn't house the proper words. Ophilia steps closer as she peers up at him to speak, "I can't pretend to know much about swords and soldiers." At least, she doesn't know much in the way of noble fighters or battles steeped in honor. The veneration for any battles she keeps is because the dignified companions she's befriended. He and H'annit both are illustrious and principled, so it's easy to commend them. "But I have noticed one thing," she glances away from him.

Ophilia's ears are hot as coals. Doe-like eyes flutter and she admits softly, "You're different from other fighting men I have known." Many find their way into Flamesgrace. The sinners, the saints, the murderers, thieves, merchants, and hardy folk born from the snow all find their way into the Church. She bore witness to the eyes of warriors with the light snuffed from them darkened black as pitch from their misdeeds and violence.

There's no such man at her side. Many came to be pardoned for their sins, forgiven by the warm light of Aelfric. A handful close to death always swam in regret, horrified of the blood they spilled and believe themselves unforgivable. It's hard for Ophilia to believe anyone's completely beyond forgiveness.

Ophilia nods up at him, able to look at him again. Her chest is warm and tight, but she says what she's been meaning to say. A hand presses against his shoulder and she nods towards him, "There's a kindness in you..."

Either startled by the charitable words or stunned Olberic remains silent. Still and imposing as a great oak the former knight studies Ophilia in awe. "..."

"I sense tenderness, and mercy to those whom you're forced to vanquish," she pictures him standing above a friendly rival with his great hand reaching out to them. There's more merciful actions she can think of but won't say aloud. The fondness in his voice when he speaks of his pupil. The patience he displays when handling Alfyn, Tressa, or Therion. He's always willing to help and to act as his friend's shield. He's the most magnificent fighter she's ever seen.

"Whatever your reason turns out to be," Ophilia's unwavering and proud to say it aloud. "I'm glad you fight alongside us." Ophilia draws her hand away from him.

Earnestly, Olberic smiles. It's such a slight smile it'd be possible to miss it completely in the dim light. On the inside, he's beaming bright and brilliant as the lantern on Ophilia's hip. Warmth spreads through Olberic's breast as he sighs out unsure what he's done to be deserving of the blessings of the cleric. "...I had never thought of myself in that way," he confesses. Pride surges in his chest. He's of use to his friends. He'll be their sword and shield so long as they need him. If they must carry on and fight their own battles, he'll happily remain in their company.

He isn't sure if he's worthy of acting as the Flamebearer's sword but he's pleased to be of use to her. She's meant to illuminate the path of the weary, the faithful, and the lost. He's happy to be in her light. Not Aelfric's light alone, but hers. Ophilia's light is more brilliant and warm than the one she ferries. Olberic bows his head to her closing his eyes in the process. "Thanks be to you, Ophilia." He hears her staff shift as he lifts his head, holding it up a little higher. "Your words give me strength," enough to face Gustav with confidence even if he isn't sure why he's wielding his sword.  
  
Ophilia smiles, "Oh, it's my pleasure."

Sir Olberic needs to speak to Cecily and Ned before he faces his next foe so she steps aside and hopes he'll find his reason for fighting, if he doesn't she'll be glad to travel with him regardless.


End file.
